My dog Bosco is cool, but his sister Penny
who suffered a broken back,
who now gallops around neighborhood trees
playing hide-and-go-seek with her litter mate,
reminds me that pain is temporary
until we die
And that even cold mornings feel warm
when we just go for it out the gate.
And then there is the boy,
who I’m watching turn into a man
one stumble or stride at a time
who inspires me to find myself
within the art of Billy Collins
or the hopefulness of everyday
encounters, to be happy just because.
And the clouds, yes, they inspire me,
as I see the soft formations
above the redwood spires and think to myself,
“to soar up there with JLS
might be worth a try.”
And then, of course, sound.
The comfort of the furnace in the morning,
the slapping together of dying leaves
on an afternoon in fall,
the constant spilling of the river’s spoils
and the rock’s response.
But none so constant an inspriration
as the pens themselves.
They wait patiently for their chance
to speak, yet sometimes
wish they’d kept their ink
It is their generosity
that inspires me the most–
apologies to the beauty of the world.